


Troll Hunters

by OneTrueStudent



Series: The Gloaming [1]
Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2018-05-16 02:13:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5809744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneTrueStudent/pseuds/OneTrueStudent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of the short stories of the Gloaming world. A few of these have been put in Sketches. I'm not intending to move them. What I do want to do is put the stuff that contributes to the world as a whole here (without estoppel) so the shorts I know I'll use later I can find easily.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. From the Mountains

The crest of the mountain was bald of snow. It was too high and dry for anything to remain long after a storm, though the face of the peak was thickly bearded and a couloir ran like a old man’s braid down the backside. There was no grass or even dirt, merely weathered gray rock in a rough circle. In the middle of the circle was a squat stone altar of black basalt, completely unlike the mountain. How it got there was lost to time. 

Next to the altar were four broken steps of dun-colored local stone. They were highest on the west and split down to the ground on the east. From the dim stairs a white staircase climbed to the clouds, lined on either sides with alabaster lanterns in seashell sconces, burning evenly in spite of the wind. The stairs were magnificently carved, joined to spiral rails and open at the back. Setting sunlight passed through.

Two men descended in purposeful haste. Neither of then noticed the cold. They wore ancient bronze armor, right for hoplites on a beach, and carried a single huge spear. Thick iron knives hung at their sides. But their armor ended in metal skirts and greaves, their feet were bare underneath their sandals, and their cloaks had no ruff. They had high horsetail helmets with thick nose-pieces and slitted eyes. 

As their feet hit the stone of the mountain the sun finally vanished, passing past the peak of Wilno in the distance. Darkness fell. The stairway vanished from the top down into shadow, and when it was gone the two men remained. They were dusky and faint, wearing a dimming twilight luminescence. They removed their helmets to bow to the altar, but replaced them to face their summoners.

Waiting for them were eight others in a loose crescent. These were all well bundled against the cold in many layers of thin white flax. Each layer was almost gause, but they were wrapped, swaddled, and layered until they looked like clouds themselves, little streamers of loose ends trailing in the wind. Most were hooded and masked too, but one out front had removed that. He was old and bald as the mountain. 

“Good evening. Grace of Callassan be on you,” said the cold old man at the center of the arc, looking warily at the two light-skinned warriors. He was nervous and concealed it behind formality. 

“The grace,” they replied in unison and slammed their spear butts into the stone. Metal crashed. The semicircle of watchers startled and jumped.

“Yes,” replied the old man carefully, unconsciously stalling for time. He wrapped up his courage, hoping to err on the side of bluntness would be forgiven. “Thank him for sending you, and you for coming. My family is beset by trolls. They take our cattle, rip up our fields, and molest anyone caught alone in the woods. We have to travel in groups and never anywhere in at night. Even then they howl outside the walls until the children cannot sleep. We need help.”

“By help, you mean the trolls dead. You need the trolls dead,” one of the spearman demanded.

“Err, yes.”

“Good. I feared you wanted to take them alive,” he grunted. 

No one laughed. After a moment the speaker sighed. 

“Take us down to your home. You live in the valley?” the other spearman asked, formally. He dwarfed even the tallest of the watchers by a head and shoulders, and they were not little men. Now the giant stepped forward with spear and helmet, and unconsciously the speaker’s family retreated, leaving him more alone. 

“Yes,” replied the old man.

“Then to your house. We do you no good up here,” the giant urged.

“Unless the trolls are up here,” interrupted the shorter one. Shorter was misleading, for he was still imposingly large in his armor. His arms and legs were massively developed, knurled with muscle and veins that flexed against his bracers. 

“We haven’t seen any,” cautioned the old man.

“We’ll be careful. Ajax will lead, you all will follow, with one walking beside him to show the way. I will come behind. Hopefully we’ll be attacked enroute.”

The people who hadn’t said anything sent him startled looks, and Ajax, the giant, explained, “It will save us time in the long run. The trolls, do they typically attack groups?”

 

“No,” the old man admitted. “Not of this size. They may follow us through the woods, howling.”

“We’ll take care of that if it comes. Who will show me the way?” Ajax asked, and a boy pushed out of the crowd to volunteer excitedly. Immediately afterwards he guiltily looked to his father for permission, but his father just nodded. Ajax nodded as well and told the child to lead on. At once the boy and giant started down a narrow kol, thin enough ants would go in single file, into a deep valley. The rest of the group followed timidly. 

The other spearman motioned to the old speaker. “Come behind with me.”

He acceded, and they brought up the rear. After some silence and when the footing wasn’t so treacherous, the spearman gave his name. “I am the Basilisk. You invoked Callassan in the name of Myr. Is that what you are called?” 

“Yes. Myr, son of Duir, I am,” Myr replied in stilted tones.

“Myr, son of Duir,” the Basilisk repeated, committing it to memory. “Be sure you tell Ajax that. Is it your son who walks with him?”

“Yes. My boy is Aran.”

“Good lad. Very brave.”

“Thank you, Basilisk.” Myr looked pleased.

“I’ve never seen a black man before,” the Basilisk continued. “Are all your kind that way?”

“Yes,” Myr replied. He’d footed this question before. “My ancestors were of the Deshar, called away from the southlands by Bolge. After the killing of the horned-lords, Bolge summoned us to people the empty lands. Our homelands were given to sandstorms and drought, and here the farming was good.”

“Then who taught you the worship of Callassan?” the Basilisk asked.

“We knew him as Doro, Bolge’s brother. He appeared with Bolge, and taught us the language. In the homelands, he was not worshiped alone, but here in his fiefdoms he gets our respect.”

That surprised the spearman. “Callassan is but a lesser god in Deshar?”

“Not lesser,” Myr hastened to correct. “But it was Bolge we owed our particular allegiance to. Here, Bolge told us follow the ways of Callassan, and we learned his rites. He must of heard us to send you.”

“Oh, he did,” the Basilisk replied, and Myr looked relieved. “But here he is the High King of Gods, and you say you did not know him as such.”

“We know now,” Myr replied, because it seemed the safest thing to say. The Basilisk shrugged, and seemed to take this for a fact. Myr glanced at him, worried he may have given offense, and found the Basilisk staring back at him, curiously. 

“Why are your palms white?” the Basilisk asked, pointing. 

“It’s just the color,” Myr replied, not correcting him. 

“And your teeth look white,” the spearman added.

“Yes, but our gums are dark. The whitemen we know have pink gums and lips.”

“You know whitemen?” the Basilisk asked, also sounding faintly relieved.

“Yes. Great numbers of them. None live in this particular valley, but their thane holds lands to the north and in a river valley to the east.”

“Oh,” exclaimed the Basilisk, much relieved. “I had wondered if all the races of men I knew had passed from Pallas while I slept.”

“There are whitemen in great numbers,” Myr assured him, and then they both felt more comfortable. The Basilisk asked about a few lineages, but Myr could tell him nothing. He knew more about his own lineage, which he mentioned as an excuse. The Basilisk pressed for details. He asked for particulars about who was related to who and how, memorizing old relationships as Myr introduced them. Myr quickly found himself exploring the depths of his history as the Basilisk pressed for clarification when a cousin's cousin was also a nephew by marriage. He asked a bit of Callassan as Doro and of Bolge, taking Myr’s answers in the spirit of academic interest of less import than his ancestors. The old man worried less. 

“We celebrate the highest feast of Doro in a few days,” Myr said. “The Kenning. I do not think it’s known here, but in Deshar it is his holiest day. Do you know it?”

“No,” the Basilisk admitted. “I’ve slept through your people’s comings and doings.”

“So, you were sleeping?" Myr asked carefully. He had no idea as to the etiquette of the matter.

“Dead. For some time by what you say,” the Basilisk agreed. Myr nodded with wide eyes. The Basilisk offered a bit more. “Lightning. Killed by a storm while we fought. Not a bad way to go, I think. Quick for a battlefield death. No bleeding; not too painful. Just a flash of light, Callassan’s judgement, and a deep sleep until his horn awoke me to answer your pleas.”

“Oh.” 

Myr nodded slowly and said nothing. He nodded slowly, and the footing at the next bit was uneven, so he had an excuse to watch his feet instead of talking. 

 

Where the kol met a lower ridge and a meadow dropped into a farmed valley the pine trees started. They didn't make it to the ridge, but came within a stones throw. Ajax stopped the group.

"If we were to be ambushed, this would be the time and place to do so. It's dark, and we don't yet have our night vision. Let's wait here until our eyes adjust, and then the Basilisk and I will scout the forest. Are any of you particularly skilled trackers?" the giant asked.

Aran claimed he was. Ajax urged him to remain behind and aid his father. Aran set his little jaw grimly. One of the other relatives, for they were all related, introduced himself as 'Winlo' and said he was familiar with these lands.

"I come here to hunt, until the trolls came. There used to be deer that come this high and dust ox," Winlo said

Ajax blinked. "What is a dust ox?"

"Like a deer but heavier. Their horns spiral."

Ajax did not at once reply, but the Basilisk suggested, "Mountain goat?"

Winlo said, "I don't know mountain goats."

The Basilisk took this for assent. "Mountain goat. You will come with us. There are no clouds and a firm moon, so once it is dark enough to see, we will go hunting trolls."

Myr had been turning this around in his mind. "The two of you?"

"Three. Winlo will come," the Basilisk replied and slapped the hunter on the shoulder. His bracers slammed the younger man's shoulders, making Winlo jump, but the hunter refused to wince. He seemed a little uncomfortable by this sudden closeness and familiarity.

Myr was not deterred. "But there are many trolls."

"And that's why Callassan-

"His grace!" Spear butts slammed the stones. 

"-sent both of us," the Basilisk replied.

Myr thought fast and concluded with a formal bow. "As you say," he agreed.

They waited for perhaps half an hour, at which point the spearmen were beginning to look uncomfortable. The farmers were bundled against the cold, but the high kol offered no protection from the wind. No one complained. When the Basilisk judged that their eyes were ready, the three hunters set off, leaving the black family alone. Aran climbed a small plinth to look after them and excitedly watched them sink into the coniferous forest. Tamima approached her husband to talk about the strangers. 

"So what do you think of them?" she asked in Deshrese.

"Doro sent them," he replied in the same. "I'll not second guess the High King of the Gods."

"Yes, but what do you think of them?" she pressed. 

"I don't think anything of them yet. I don't know," he deflected her. "But this is a powerful omen. Doro sends white men to help us. Surely that will help with neighbor Faran."

"Faran's dislike of our color is an excuse, and we both know it," argued Tamima. "He wants our hearth. He'd preach anger and malice about birdsong if he was in the business of selling harps."

"But we first deprive him of that excuse," Myr continued. "Besides, he has no power. It's the thane whose help I want to win. Thane Mortun hasn't sided with us, but he hasn't sided against us, and I hold out hope his iron is still soft. There are edges in there, but they're not turned either way yet. And Thane Mortun is devoted to Callassan, so Doro sending two of his servants to aid us is a powerful blessing."

Tamima wanted to argue, but she wasn't sure which side of the argument to take. She glowered at her husband, who tried to look both strong and unoffending. They turned to Aran, who was clearly awed.

"They were nice to the boy," said Myr, not looking at her.

Tamima seemed to melt. "Yes, they were. What did they say of him?"

"The Basilisk called him a brave lad when Aran volunteered to lead the way."

"He's always had such sure feet," said Tamima. Myr glanced sideways at her, and she didn't notice, looking over at Aran on his rock. "He had better. If he falls of that rock he could plummet to his death."

"If I tell him to be careful, he'll only be less so to show how he isn't scared," said Myr.

"Boys will be the death of me," grumbled Tamima. "That and the cold. Why are we still on this mountain?"

"We prayed to this land's god for help, and he sends us troll hunters. Let us not ignore their help already."

"They could be quicker about it."

Myr didn't say anything. 

"The Basilisk?" she said after some thought. "That is a fell name."

Myr opened his mouth to say something and thought better of it. A moment later he did it again. Finally he said, "We should be careful around them. I trust them, but we should be careful."

He was pleased Tamima did not argue. Instead she left to drag Aran off his perch, which he argued about, and Myr lead everyone to a sheltered part of the ridge. Two exposed rocks formed a deep grotto, and the wind roared overhead. Once the members of the family were inside, it warmed. Midnight was approaching when the Basilisk halloed outside and marched in.

"Found some. Nasty brutes. You should hasten down to the hearthholm. It is the round one in the dell, correct?" he asked.

Myr answered slowly. "The great Ajax is not with you?"

"Oh, he's fine. He'll be keeping a watch. We impressed Winlo into our services as well. He's a good tracker. Excellent eyes, sharp wit. You should be clear to hasten home and out of the cold. We'll be joining you later."

"Was it an ambush?"

"That or bad luck. Something terrible happened to them." The Basilisk laughed, pleased with himself. "But it's cold and late. Come. I'll see you on your way, then we must go to hunting these trolls."

 

No one slept in Myr's hall. They grouped in the great dinner room with the rest of the extended family, some forty Deshreese, and those that had not been at the peak pestered Myr with questions. He tried to answer them carefully. Aran would answer much faster, hopping up and down while he told everything he'd seen, and Morrun, Myr's other son, grew jealous of his little brother's attention and started answering too. Both of them were much more forthcoming than Myr. The hearthfather viewed them askance before retreating from the issue and sat by the fire, thinking hard. He smoked a wide pipe and thought of Winlo and the troll hunters. 

Soon Tamima started sending people to bed. She got the youngest children to go and their mothers, but even her iron will failed against the others' curiosity. In the end she settled everyone around a table so they could talk and wait.

Around dawn the gates crashed open, and the three hunters tromped into the hall. They were covered in blood. The firelight painted them, and their armor was heavy and strange. Ajax had to duck to come through the great door and weave through the roof beams. The Basilisk passed him to approach the crowd. Someone made a seat available. He sat down, peeled off his bloody helmet, and hit Tamima with the weight of his gaze.

"Now, ma'am, we must come to the most important matter." He raised one eyebrow. "What do you have to eat?"

So sudden and frightening was his appearance Tamima honestly thought he was talking of human flesh. She asked, "You mean bread?" out of more hope for distraction then a suggestion.

"Yes, that." 

"Oh, thank God," she whispered, and the two warriors tapped wood with their fingers. They did it fast and casually, a gesture so ingrained they didn't think about it. "Or would you rather cheese and goat milk?"

"That too."

"Would you rather the whole goat?" interjected Ryce, a second cousin.

"We defer, of course, to the lord of the hearth," said Ajax.

"But with his permission, carve it," added the Basilisk.

This was Tamima's battle. She went at once to war, taking her soldiers of the kitchen, and suggested the newcomers wash in the courtyard. They agreed, and a crowd hustled them out to the cistern while the other crowd rushed to prepare a feast. Myr remained behind the suddenly empty hall, and called to Winlo, who had stayed as well. The tracker was clean of gore. 

"Winlo, join me for a moment," he said.

The young man walked over to the hearth warily, wild-eyed. Myr looked at him. He was getting big, Myr thought. Winlo was twenty now, and it was time to start thinking about getting him a wife. He was getting shape from working in the smithy, but he moved fast. He was much quicker than Low, the mastersmith. Even indoors Winlow walked quietly. He usually looked so calm, when he wasn't pretending to be bored. Now he looked shocked.

"Care for a pipe?" Myr asked to give him a breathing pause.

Winlo did not at once reply, but stared open-mouthed into the fire. Finally he looked at Myr. He didn't seem to see the housefather but looked beyond him. 

"They're terrors," Winlo whispered.

"Tell me," urged Myr.

"They hunted them. They ambushed them, but they ambushed them wrong. They didn't attack from surprise; they charged a dozen trolls and ran them down. The trolls didn't know to run, so they attacked, and the demons slew them. It wasn't," Winlo sought a word. "It wasn't reasonable."

"What do you mean?"

"In the trees below the kol there was a pack of them. There was an ambush. Somehow they knew? I don't know. But I sniffed them in the trees and saw their tracks. We went by a deer path to a hollow with a spring. There were a dozen of them, and we could see you and the group on the ridge. They talked with their hands, and then they rushed them."

Myr was having difficulty, but he guessed, "Ajax and the Basilisk, they were the ones talking with their hands?"

"Yes, yes." Winlo paused. "I've seen a troll rip the legs off a deer like a cruel child might rip the wings off a butterfly. I saw Ajax beat one to death."

Myr nodded. He hit deep of his pipe for time to think. 

"You don't understand," said Winlo, still trying to come to grips himself. "He ripped the troll's arm from its socket and beat the troll to death. With the troll's own arm! When they were all dead, we went hunting. A troll was hiding behind a tree. The Basilisk put a spear in him through the tree. They joked about it, calling it the Eye of Judgement. Ajax said that was where he got his name, the gaze that transfixes." Winlow couldn't understand what he said, and turned to Myr, attacking a misunderstanding he assumed Myr had as well. "Do you know how big a tree has to be for a troll to hide behind it? He put a spear through a tree!"

Myr listened for the sounds of doors. There were none. The visitors were still safe outside and out of hearing, so Winlo's yelling wouldn't bother them. The housefather reached for ways to calm the boy down. 

"Winlo. Sit." He offered the boy his own seat. "Have a smoke and compose yourself. You know the most important things right now, and you have to tell me. But we must be sure. Compose yourself. A smoke. Hold it. Good. Now, think carefully about your answers. Are you ready?"

Winlo began to nod, then leaned forward and took his uncle's pipe from his hand to draw on it again. The boy's wild eyes abated. Myr looked at this and thought, but said nothing until the youth seemed composed.

"Are you ready?" Myr asked again.

"I am, sir," Winlo replied, looking faintly embarrassed. He gave his uncle back the pipe.

"Did they say or do anything that makes you worried for the family?"

Myr saw something of himself in the way Winlo tried to answer, reconsidered, and said something he clearly had not intended to say at first. 

"No, sir. They were very pleasant. The smaller one, the Basilisk, praised me so much I thought he was flattering me, but I think that's just his way. Oh. One time, when by chance we were drawn apart, I heard them talking. The giant was upset that we had not introduced ourselves. The Basilisk calmed him. I believe that's very upsetting to them, but the shorter one was telling the taller one it's just a difference. Ajax muttered about introducing himself first if necessary, but the little one said 'that wasn't called for.'"

"Do you think that was a threat?" asked Myr.

"I don't know," Winlo admitted. "It may have simply been rude. The big one was very concerned with politeness." Winlo looked uncomfortably to his uncle and said, "I think you should introduce yourself and everyone in the hearth very properly, sir."

"I will do that," Myr agreed. He thought of something. "Did you introduce yourself?"

"I think I need to be introduced. I think you must do it. You're the hearthfather."

"They should have known. They were sent by Doro," Myr admitted to himself. "Well, no matter. A good insight," he complimented the boy, noting Winlo looked less wild now. "Anything else?"

"They spoke of the hills, asked me of hiding places and water paths. I believe they do mean to hunt trolls."

My nodded. "Anything about your color? Did they ask about your skin?"

"No, it didn't come up." Winlo paused. "Sir, may I-"

"Speak."

"I wouldn't wait for a formal occasion to introduce yourself and the house. I would do it soon." Winlo looked embarrassed.

Myr considered the table that his nieces were preparing, and the first smell of cooking coming through the kitchen doors. "I will- No, I will trust you. I will do it now. Come with me to the courtyard. I'll introduce you too."

"Thank you," said Winlo. He rose and looked steady on his feet. His breathing had slowed down as well. Myr took stock of him and judged him ready, and lead the way outside.

 

The sun wasn't above the peaks, but the east was brighter than the west when Myr emerged. A crowd was in the courtyard around Ajax and the Basilisk as the two fighters took turns washing in the shockingly cold water. They danced and howled with each bucket to the laughter of the men.

"My family!" yelled Myr stilling them. How did he do this? He didn't know how to introduce a family to God's warriors. Were they angels? Should he call them such? Duir would have known. Alas the damn sickness. He had never been ready for this. "Your attention! I am Myr, son of Duir, and this is Merrenhall, built by my grandfather Merren before I was born. This is our home. Welcome."

"Thank you, Lord Myr!" yelled the two mostly naked men, and both glanced around. The Basilisk grabbed a ladle and Ajax a bucket. "The grace of Callassan upon you and your home. His grace!" They rapped on the cistern wall.

"Thank you for his blessing. You have met my son Aran, son of Myr, son of Duir, who is most likely not in his bed where he should be-"

A titter exploded at his, and everyone glanced at the side of the cistern. Aran glanced around shamefaced. Myr raised an eyebrow at him.

"So let me introduce Morrun, my eldest, Morrun, son of Myr, son of Duir, and named for my grandfather who built our home."

Morrun was with the crowd and looked confused by this peculiar bit of ceremony. Their guests were not. They rapped the stone wall and congratulated him on his fine ancestry. That was odd. Myr paused a moment to gather his thoughts, and Ajax stepped forward.

"Myr, Son of Duir, Son of Merren, and lord of hearth Merrenhall, thank you for your name, and the names of your sons. I am Ajax Untitled, and this is the Basilisk, son of Bane and the Witchqueen Terrormar, of the Eye of Judgement. May only Callassan's gaze of plenty fall on your home." They both bowed.

Mercy! thought Myr when the Basilisk was introduced, and he barely kept emotion from his face. He wondered if some tapping like the way these two did was called for. He was spared the decision by the cheer that greeted Ajax's words. Aran jumped in the mud. The Basilisk chided him in a friendly tone.

"Hush. Your father's still going. He's given your name, but you don't want to stop him from introducing your family, do you?"

Everyone? thought Myr. Well, so be it. Duir would have known that already. I'll introduce you to the goats if that's what you want.

Myr went down the line and got better at it the more he did. "This is Winlo, son of Merila and Tinnon, our surefooted apprentice steelsmith and hunter." He indicated the boy, no, young man, behind him. 

Aran had taken the ladle from the Basilisk, and he rapped furiously with it, almost overcoming his father's words. The shorter warrior gently grabbed the ladle and held it until Myr paused, and then allowed Aran to rap excitedly away. Myr guessed that the banging was thus more of a friendly noise than part of the ritual. The two strangers looked more at ease and patient as Myr continued they put faces to names. Thinking fondly of Winlo, Myr went around the ring.

Low, steelsmith, and his sons, Temmry, miner, Hemmly, apprentice smith, and Fennor, farmer, came next, followed by Low's cousin Tunno, their artificer. Temmry's son, Jynno, named for his uncle, wasn't there because, "My son goes to bed when he's told," said Temmry proudly.

"Jynno crawls! He can't walk!" yelled Aran indignantly. He knew that was somehow about him.

Oh, how you will learn, thought Myr. He introduced Tahran and Yrel, from Myr's second cousin's heath to the south, Welshel, Havviny, and Loom, who worked in the fields and woodyard, and Lemmy, their thatcher and woodworker. "He's even our cooper," added Myr.

"Can you fletch?" asked the Basilisk, looking interested. 

"I can," said Lemmy.

The Basilisk jutted out his lower lip and looked impressed, which got Lemmy a low round of praising whistles. Welshel, Loom, and Lemmy all had children that were in bed, but would join them for the meal. While Myr was deciding whether or not to get them up now, he spotted Ajax glancing towards the low slung kitchen hall, obvious by its two fireplaces and deep stone cellar. Myr made several quick leaps of logic. 

"And I will introduce the other half of the hall come the meal. You may be brave warriors, but I'm old enough to know discretion over valor, and won't bother my wife and sisters when they're cooking."

"Myr, the deadliest dragon and the woman with the food are very different fights," agreed the Basilisk. "We will be guided by you."

Very polite, Myr thought, but very forward. In some places it's uncommon to ask for an introduction to another man's wife. I should spend more time with my neighbors. There's always so much to do. "Finish your affairs and come inside. I'm sure something will be ready soon."

Returning, Myr noted the subtle difference in the conversation he left. The warriors pointedly used names and reacted well when theirs were used. I wonder, he thought. Did they use few names in the hearth because they all knew each other so well? Were the strangers trying to become well known? Or did they need to know?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1st Person POV, from Jusu, main character from Crows. Some big changes to Edmund. I learned a lot writing KG, so the implicit problems of SW are hopefully getting fixed.

Eyes like mahogany, he was tall, hair like walnut. God, he was handsome. He was taller than any of us standing, Anskar slouching, but I couldn't compare them. Edmund was in command. He breathed it. He had the effortless charisma with only one problem.

He thought too fast. He moved too quickly. His words came in a rush. They didn't inflame the passions because his meaning wasn't easy to follow. He was agitated now, leaning over, leaning at us. It wasn't sexy. He didn't see us as people, but collections of attributes. He fidgeted and twitched, looked from us to the table to the well. He looked back.

"I only have one question. One question. Simple question. Are you stupid?"

It took us aback half a breath, which was an hour in agitated-Edmund time, and he continued before we could have spoken.

"Of course, you don't know. No one ever does. I've got to know. Tell me, would someone else, someone who perhaps doesn't like you that much, but not enough to bear active malice, think you're stupid? Do any of you suck your own toes? Can you keep your fingers out of your nose? Do you swear and giggle? Quick, you, say panties without laughing."

"Um," muddled Juan.

"Panties! Panties! Say it now!"

 

"Uh, panties?" ventured Juan.

Edmund flashed to his face, leaned in, rolling his head over on the side to give Juan one huge, demanding, harsh eye. It was the weirdest thing. Edmund lifted his head predatorily and waited.

"Panties aren't really that funny," said Juan awkwardly.

"They're just underwear," I added. I was wearing a pair. They were all right.

Summoned, Edmund leaped at me, and gave me the big fish-eye too. "Speak carefully, Jusu. Tell me the truth. Are. You. A moron?"

I made firm eye contact, chin up, shoulders back, confident tone of voice. "No."

"Are you sure?" snapped Edmund.

"Ah, yeah," I replied.

He whispered, "They're always sure. The imbeciles are full of certainty, and the wise consumed by doubts. My life is the age of the second coming. Ah, very well. Children, you have a simple task. We don't have much time. Listen carefully.

"This is a table. That is a well. You will take one of these copper coins (see the little face?) from the table and plunk it into the well. You will, in that moment, have the option of asking three questions. You have to ask them immediately, and you only get the three. Please don't be stupid. These aren't wishes. You can't ask how to get more questions. Your predecessor did not return from the well, and he was the kind of lad to ask how to get more questions."

"When you say, return from the well, what do you mean? I thought we threw the coin into the well?" asked Anskar, who was at the table, poking at it. There were a pile of identical copper coins, more than three, as well as some of the Baron's gold and silver, and at least a few of Asharak's iron-ringed golds. There were a couple others I didn't recognize.

"You will. These. Only the copper ones. They're just copper, but they were minted in Van, and Van, of course, mints no more coins. The thing is-"

"Isn't your brother named Van?" demanded Juan.

"He is. Named after the city. That's not the thing. The thing is, the well only takes Vain coppers, red-pennies, and there aren't a whole lot of them. Don't waste them. I've got extra. If you throw one at the well and miss, I've got spares, but-"

"Get back to the guy who did not return from the well," interjected Anskar.

"Oh." Edmunds paused. "He drowned in the well. He threw the coin in, and somehow fell in after it. You go into a bit of daze when you ask the questions, so no one else can see what you're asking. The answers are yours. In your case, they're mine. I will buy them from you, provided you ask the right questions. See? Pile of money."

Edmund spread his hands in hyperactive generosity, indicated the extant piles of money.

They were legit piles of money. I don't know how much a table full of gold is worth, but it's got to be lots.

"So, if he was in a daze, how did-"

 

"Magic," interrupted Edmund. "Magic. He died by magic. The magic well that gives magic answers when you throw a coin in did magic on him, and he died. Magic. Did you not figure that part out? Were the magic answers from the magic well too subtle?" Edmund scowled at him. "You worry me."

Anskar leaned back and slouched insolently, giving Edmund, Prince Edmund properly, only one eye of scorn.

"Perhaps you should go last," mused Edmund.

"So we throw the coin in, and what, a genie appears?" I asked, pushing forward between them.

Having drawn Edmund's attention to me, I held it for only a moment before he glanced out and around, seeing Juan, patient, the well, the table, the walls of the tower built up around the well, and the iron door that lead to another iron door with a wooden door beyond. His fingers drummed his thumbs. 

"No. You will appear in an chamber of glass. You will appear to appear, your body will still be here. In the chamber of glass, you will find four...perhaps people. They look human. They move strangely. They will exchange with you a simple ritual. You may then ask three questions. No one knows where the Crystal Castle is. No one knows where it was made. No one knows who made it, nor laid the bindings of the Oaths of Dain. Dain? No idea. Dain could have been a person to so swear, the name of that type of oath, perhaps an insignia the oaths were sworn on. These are all your questions!"

"What? All of them?" asked Juan.

"Any of them! Aren't you listening! I've got a magic well right here that you throw a coin in, and it answers your questions! It sees the future! I asked which of the grain merchants would turn the best return, bought all of his shares, and sweated bullets for two years before making my fortune, and I can only do it once! Magic well answers questions, and we don't know how! We should know how! Someone should figure that out! Me. You. Us. Not morons, friends." Edmund smiled like a horse trader and wrapped his long arms around our shoulders.

Juan didn't care. His family was touchy-feely, and they were always hugging and pushing and bugging each other. I didn't care because my goodness, I was fixing to get the vapors. He would be movie-star hot if he closed his mouth. Anskar did care, but Anskar was too cool to care, so he stayed exactly where he was like Edmund wasn't putting his arm around him at all.

"Fine. Seems straight forward. What do you want us to say, exactly? You've obviously put some thought into that," I said. 

He moved. Good-ish. 

"I have! Now, someone will have to go first, and we can change our approach depending on what they say. You only get to go once, so make it count. Who wants to go first?"

Anskar was way too cool to be excited about a magic well that answered your questions with magic. I waved him off. Juan was willing. He was ready, but so was I.

"Flip you for it?" Juan asked.

"No, don't do that!" yelled Edmund. "Well, magic coins, well, old coins in a magic well, no coin flipping. That sounds like a recipe for disaster. I'm think of a number between- oh, I don't care. You, Jusu, you go first. You're shorter."

Hey.

"Fine," I said. "What do you want me to ask? Why don't you go first?"

Edmund pounced on me again. "See? You're burning questions. I've already gone, and part of the little ritual is they tell you you can't get more answers. That doesn't exactly mean you can't go twice, but I don't want to get drowned. Jusu, these are your questions. Listen carefully. Are you listening? You don't look like you're listening."

He would be so beautiful if he wasn't so annoying.

"Yes," I said.

"Right. Ask, just like this, use these words, What are the Oaths of Dain? Just like that. Don't experiment. Don't wax philosophical. Jusu, this is not a time for philosophers. Never is a time for philosophers. This is a time for coin flipping and smart questions. Do you understand?" He leaned up near me again.

I shoved him. "What are the Oaths of Dain? Got it. Next question?"

"If there were other doors to the Crystal Castle from the Gloaming, where would they be?"

"If there were other doors to the Crystal Castle from the Gloaming, where would they be?" I repeated dutifully. "The third?"

"The third is yours. Ask whatever you want." He retreated slightly. "You only get three questions, so it would be rude to demand you use all three. Now, if we get some good answers, we could get answers for everybody, and wouldn't you rather be able to ask all of the questions? I need you to make a sacrifice for the team. I will pay you exceptionally well to take this sacrifice for the team. You can cry yourself to sleep on a pile of money. That's why dragons hoard. Dragons are consumed by melancholy." Edmund shrugged and wiggled his eyebrows. I couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He talked too fast.

"What are the Oaths of Dain, If there were other doors to the Crystal Castle from the Gloaming, where would they be, and whatever I want to ask. Got it." Seemed easy enough.

"What are you going to ask?" asked Juan.

Edmund interrupted me. "Don't ask when you're going to die. You don't want to know. Also, don't ask how you could live forever. We had a few people ask that. They- ah-" Amazingly, Edmund paused. "It didn't end well." He added and looked down.

"You could ask about true love?" suggested Juan. I looked suspiciously at him, but he didn't look condescending.

"The problem with that is then you get into a question about what exactly is true love, is true love the same thing to different people, what if you're true love's true love is someone else? I think you could wind up on the end of the rope again."

"The end of the rope?" I asked.

"Yeah. The rope. That's how the girl who asked when she was going to die..." and that was the moment Edmund's brain caught up to his mouth. He froze, flushed, and went silent, trying and failing to think of something to change the conversation.

"I get it. No true love," I said. 

All three of us were looking Edmund, waiting for him to either start talking and dig himself a little deeper, or someone other than Edmund to start talking and get interrupted. 

God, he was pretty. Seriously. Genetic jackpot, baby. That man's jawline: Goodness.

"It's your question," the prince said defensively.

"And I've got it," I replied, and walked to the table. I tried to stride confidently, but it was two steps and I had to go around Anskar. It's hard to stride in two steps. Striding takes some momentum. I picked up a Vain copper. It was redder than American pennies, or earthly pennies in general to my experience, and slightly larger, just shy of a quarter but thicker. It was old, worn smooth, but had some engraving divots. 

Everyone was watching me, and I think Edmund was holding his breath. Anskar looked interested, and Juan was shooting me thumbs up.

With all the momentus attention, I felt silly throwing a coin in a well, and I think I would have died if I'd missed. I didn't. It plunked, and then I wasn't there any more.


	3. The Valley of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Going to use this one later. Emory gets more work in my planning. She's a reluctant fanatic.

Misset bent a finger-thick branch back and forth until it broke from the stem and leaked arterial sap onto his fingers. The sanguine fluid stained his hands and merged with old stains under his nails. 

"Dragons blood," he said, spreading it around his palm with his thumb. "Smell it. Taste the stick."

Emory took the broken branch from him, sniffed it cautiously, and licked it. She had to try three times, for she was so intent on pulling away with only the slightest of tastes she retreated from the stick twice before her tongue even touched it. Misset waited with a placid, uncritical expression. He'd seen this reluctance before. On the third try she did get a droplet of the crimson sap on her tounge, and she mixed it with saliva to rub over her teeth. 

"Tastes like saffron," she said.

"We used to boil it down to make spice, but when the Celephians began imported true saffron the bottom fell out of the market." He rubbed most of the watery fluid from his hands, and then he looked like a murderer. He held his hands out for inspection. "It will turn black with exposure to air. Don't worry about your teeth. The natural movement of your lips will wipe it away. Some people use it as a whitener, but I'm not sure if it does anything."

The woman in green discarded the branch before it could spill sap on her fingers, even though she'd barely touched the end of a succulent leaf. Leaves of the dragon were short and fat. They grew well in the high, hot air of the Monnosh plateau. It was noon during winter, meaning borehole of the kiln was merely the back door of a stove. Emory had drank more water in a day than she could imagine and sweated constantly, yet her clothes were dry. Misset didn't seem to notice the heat. 

"What else can you do with it?" she asked him. 

"In small quantities it's good for digestion. The tree itself is ornamental. Once carved the wood stays a deep black without varnish or stain, needing only a bit of polish. However it doesn't plane flat. The trunk-wood is full of knots, and the branches are too thin and spindley. It can be woven if boiled. That's what we're working on now. Boiling dilutes the sap, but it grows like a weed. Besides, it likes the waters of the Grey Tarn." Misset stroked a bent tree like a good dog and looked out over the depression. 

"Where is the tarn?" asked Emory.

"Here. When it comes, it's right here. We didn't get the rains for it this year."

The small, dark-skinned man with withered face and black hands wore a flowing, shapeless robe. Underneath he wore a tunic that reached to his knees with high cuts on either side, and the result caught the wind. It looked cool now and would be close to tolerable come summer, thought Emory. She was wearing something close, two layers of linen with a headress of sassame, a fabric like wool gauze. It was made of goat hair, and it was thin and dried quickly. Somehow she didn't have the knack to wear it casually, and her mantle bunched up over her back. When the wind caught it, it looked like bound wings.

'Be careful of the sun,' Misset had warned when she'd first contracted him to take her to see the dragons. 'It's cold and wan now, but it lies like a serpent. It will bite you.'

Cold and wan, she thought, and stared at the stark depression between black mountains. Nowhere had she seen such a high, bleak desert. There was no space between white light and dim shade. In the sun she couldn't see under a dragon bush, where the shadows pooled like depths. From the shade the sundrenched hills were too bright to look at, and they burned like molten gold. The sand was copper, the rocks red, and dragons writhed across the ground.

"This is the Grey Tarn?" she asked, gesturing around them with a finger.

"When it comes," he agreed. "Come. I'll show you from a hill." His tone indicated his fee would be the same should she spend a month wandering the desert or were they to return to Merriam immediately. 

They walked between the twisted dragons. The bushes took root in hard ground where reddish dirt was little more than fine gravel. They bit hard and deep. Most had several root stems branching from a main taproot, and from that main taproot reached the crooked, serpentine trunk. It would climb any rock it could find, spreading out twisted branches that knurled and knotted like broken fingers. Left to itself, the trunks would sullenly mount up towards the sun. Most got head-high before spreading out thick, water retaining leaves to catch the limitless sun. There was always sun, and the bush wasted light to husband water. Its bark was pale where it wasn't stained copper by dirt.

The hill had a sparse crown, and Misset lead to a point where they could see the entire valley. It ran north to south in a trough, cupped by the great black Eidle Heights. They were, Emory knew but couldn't believe, standing higher than the rainclouds that slammed against the Eidle's eastern foot, where the mountains fell into the sea. She'd seen rainclouds break against the mountains when she had climbed the sharp back-and-forth trail with Misset a week ago. She knew how high they had gone, and how little they'd descended on the inland side. She couldn't believe it. 

"The valley is flat. Save this hill, a few others, it is nearly perfect. Sometimes, when we get the rain for it, water flows from the west wall. It is a grey, dank stream. It stinks. But it flows out and drowns the valley floor to dry quickly. The tarn rarely lasts more than a week. I've come soon after, while the dirt is still mud, and seen high water marks as tall as my head. The dirt burned my feet where it touched. Some little got into a cut, and I thought I would need lop my foot off. It burned for a week. As you can see, I resisted," said Misset and adjusted both of his feet. His feet and toes were black, even on the soles, from exposure to sap of the dragon brush. In the summer, when it was hot, he wore small skirts around his ankles to protect his feet. Emory's mouth was parched, and her skull raced to soak her veils in sweat as the sun burned them dry. It was not hot yet. "Drink a little, lady. The sun is a serpent. Don't try to fight it."

Other than disliking being told what to do, she had no reason to resist, and Emory disliked arguing for arguing's sake. She drank some water and swirled it around her mouth. She didn't want dragons blood to turn her teeth black. 

"What is this hill?" she asked.

"A hill," replied Misset. 

"No, what is its name?"

Misset blinked. "Hill."

Anywhere else, with anyone else, she would have taken that to be sarcasm. Misset was not sarcastic. Misset was patient, immutable, and baked to a core of black rock as deep as the mountain roots. She imagined he had thought of the meaning of names, handles to apply to things with the toungue, and found a suitable one. The hill could be meaningfulyl called Hill, and so it was.

Anyone else would have asked her what else she wanted to see. Misset was not paid to ask. He was paid to show her what she wanted to see after she asked. He watched the flat valley between black mountains and looked at the pale green leaves that clung to dragon branches like fat leaches. When she did not speak, he lowered himself to sit on his heels with the patience of stones. Perhaps dragon trees, waiting for their burning water, thought Misset. She drank more. She did not yet need to relieve herself. God, it was hot.

"Are there other plants?" she asked. There were some: grasses, cacti, a few scrubs. Most couldn't survive the burning water, so they came and went up and down the valley walls. The Grey Tarn had come last year and pushed the grasses out of the valley. They would not make it this far for another five years or so.

"And the Tarn comes less frequently than that?" she asked. It might. It did not come and go consistently, but that was like weather.

"Are there animals?" she pressed, and he admitted some few made it down. They did not survive the waters either, so now they were up the valley walls with the grasses, the cacti, and the cooler air. The valley was full of dragons, but they did not share their horde of sun.

Ermory sighed and hugged herself. She felt cold underneath the heat. "Is there nothing?" she asked.

Misset shrugged. There was sun, dragons, and rock. Sometimes water that burned, always air and wind. He didn't ask her what she wanted, but it was all she could think about. Anything, she thought. Anything but sun, dragons, and rock. People, voices, and the touch of friends.

"Show me where I can build a house," she said, hanging her head. "Here in the valley. Where the waters won't reach."

Misset looked at her for a long time. His dark face allowed nothing. But he didn't ask questions and took her to a hill to the north, one he named, "Other Hill." It was tall, bleak, and bald. 

"Here," he said. "The Grey Tarn never comes as high as this. I do not know where you will get water."

"Neither do I," she said and tried not to sigh. 

 

In the halls of Heaven the creatures of God made war on the creations of man.


	4. Men who wear the skin of bears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics in fantasy seems to be all the rage these days.

Cassilda lead four guests through secret ways under Castle Celephais to the catacombs beneath the palace. She was dark and slim, little more than a shadow, and they were large, silent, and unkempt. They wore bearskins and knives. She left them in a small private chapel. When she returned the king was with her. Vol and Tuk rose to their feet, but Jal and Myr did not.

"Thank you. Be seated," said King Kuranes XIV, Lord of the Dreaming City, King on the Crystal Throne, and Vicar of Morpheus between Pallas' Four Corners. He had been Martin in his youth, but now his only name was Kuranes. "Is it snowing yet? I haven't been outside today."

"It threatens," Jal answered.

"Indeed. It is the season for it," Kuranes agreed, not seeming surprised. "It will get worse soon. This is going to be a winter for the ages. What do you all know of Gehenna?"

"Tell us," replied Jal. Vol had opened his mouth, but shut it when Jal spoke. 

"It is the land on the far side of the Fhysay. Gehenna itself is the largest of some hundred islands, ten to fifteen of which have permanent settlements of note. People are, or may be, on any of them during the summer, but those inhabited in winter are considered settled. Isle Dis is some four times the size of Lopaz and has soil equally rich. It's the site of the capital city, also Dis. In common speech the terms are interchangeable," said Kuranes. He had a rich, trained voice, and he spoke evenly and well. It was easy to lose oneself in the rhythm of his words, but none four of the fur-clad guests relaxed. They sat tense on the pews, ready to spring, and kept their eyes on his Majesty and the small, dark woman who sat unobtrusively in the shadows.

"Of course you know of the Century War, so I won't bore you with that, but I'll say something of the peace process. When I inherited the throne the Gehennian king was Erl of the Diamond House. He was a belligerent but a realist, and after our victory of Greenway Isle, he sued for peace. This was eight odd years ago. It took us two years to come to terms, and the war officially ended with an exchange of hostages, his eldest son and my youngest. My son Edgar was only just weaned. Neither me nor my wife saw his first steps or heard his first words. Erl's son, Mittage, was already six when he came to us. Obviously we missed his first steps too, but I put him on a horse the first time. He already knew how to sail."

The king paused, then added in wonder, "At six. You may have seen him at the Harvest Festival a few weeks back. Strong boy, big for his age. He sat with us."

"We missed him," Jal replied. His voice was smooth, fitting for the deep chapel. There were stained glass windows, but they were lit by oil lanterns beyond, reflected and diffused by bronze mirrors. 

His Majesty did not seem to notice the remark. "That's where he sits. He likes to pick at the wood with his nails; you can see how it splinters." He pointed at one of the men or the bench he sat on.

The king lapsed into silence, staring at Myr without seeing him. Under the gaze, Myr felt obligated to look down and observe that the wood was indeed disturbed. Some bored child had worked splinters from the wood for years. 

"We tell him not to," mused Kuranes, barely speaking out loud. "But boys will be bored in church. Let me declare war on that rising tide."

The King shook himself and returned to the quick, professional tone of before. "Four days ago the Ebony House staged a coup. Erl was killed, his wife, their children. Ebony hanged them in the street. They've been hunting members of Erl's lineage. Anyone bound to Diamond by blood is hanged in the street, their house burned, possessions taken. Baron Done of House Ebony was dragged from his own bed, and his arms and legs were pulled apart by block and tackle. His mother was Diamond, when the two houses tried for an alliance. As I said, that was four days ago.

"Three days ago, a storm hit. It was bad. There will be no more pigeons. Already the ports are ice locked, and it will be months before they open. Then it is two months by fast ship from there to here. At least six months will pass before the earliest message can arrive." Kuranes was about to continue, but Tuk interrupted him.

"But by then it will be warm enough for pigeons," said Tuk.

The King took no notice of being interrupted but replied to the point, "Yes, if somehow a hawk hadn't gotten into the pigeon coops and killed everything. Damn shame."

"A hawk," said Tuk. "Got into the pigeon coops. In Gehenna. In winter."

"Killed everything," Kuranes agreed.

Tuk nodded slowly. "And how did you hear about this?"

"Only one bird escaped: the one that carried the last message to me. It must have been the hand of the gods."

The bearskin men betrayed nothing on their faces.

His Majesty continued. "In a few months a messenger will arrive. That message will say something to the effect of the peace treaty is over, and Prince Mettage is to be sent home. Mettage is now heir to the Diamond throne, last of his line, and last claimant on the throne of Dis outside house Ebony. They have my son, and I have theirs."

King Kuranes spoke with frigid control. His words were light, but his eyes never moved. 

"Ebony is brutal but not stupid. Gehenna is no stranger to coups, so to pull one off so successfully is the mark of good planning. If they kill Edgar, I won't send Mittage back. Then I have the true king of Gehenna, and recall, we did crush them in our last war. But if I don't send Mittage back, then they will-" Kuranes could not finish. For an instant he lost his detachment, and stared again into the shallow light of the temple, this time looking at an empty pew near the back. It was a nursing pew having a wider aisle than the others. Nursing or pregnant mothers would use them in case they needed to leave during a service. Kuranes stared and his face weakened.

"If I wanted to do anything, there's nothing I can do. The high plains of Huror are a thousand leagues of grasslands and ice. There's nothing between them and the frozen north but blizzards and hail. It would take a year for agents to cross that wasteland, and still there would be no hope. The Fhysay is brutal. Ice floes sweep it in the best of times, and no riders could carry boats that far. Furthermore, this is a winter out of legend. Trees are exploding in the Errid Climes. No rider could make the north shore in time, they could not carry a boat for the sea crossing, and no small boat could survive the cold. If one did, one would almost certainly get ice locked. It's impossible."

As he spoke of the magnitude of his futility, Kuranes came back alive. By the time he was finished, he was looking between the four men quickly, seeing the effect of his words. All of his guests acted unmoved, but his Majesty was skilled with such people. He saw them subtly lean forward in their seats and hints of proud smiles, quickly hidden.

"Yes, impossible." Kuranes drew the word out, pulling it taught. "Let's put that aside for now. Want to hear a bit of trivia? Do you know that Celephais is, by oaths spoken by Kuranese the First at the moment of her coronation, a kingdom of men only? And that some enemies of Celephais are considered Ancestral Foes? Dragons, for example. 

"The Ancestral Foe clause requires the crown to take action against them without any of the usual limiting factors; parliamentary procedures, oversight, discretion. There are others. Vampires. Did you know it is illegal, on pain of immolation, for a vampire to exist within the island of Celephais? Did you know we've never confirmed vampires exist, outside of questionable myth, but there's a stack of laws this high on what to do if we found one? We even have a bureau of vampire hunters, and I'm proud to say, they've never let one escape. Also ghosts, which do exist, but there's not much to be done about them. They get hanged when found, but they're already dead. I'm not sure what that's supposed to accomplish," he admitted, allowing himself to pretend smile. 

"You find the Ancestral Foe clause humorous?" asked Jal. His voice was very soft, but it raised Cassilda's dark eyes.

"Perhaps, but it is often misquoted. Do you know that skin changers aren't in it?" Kuranes replied.

The room was quiet and tense, and no one said anything for a long, frigid time. Finally Jal's patience wore thin, and he demanded, "What?"

"The Ancestral Foe clause is a very specific thing. It is immutable, sanctioned by Morpheus when Celephais was raised and Kuranes the First crowned. Taproom lawyers love to recite it. They are wrong. If you read the oaths, you will find no mention of the men who wear the skin of bears anywhere," replied Kuranes in practiced tones. At his cue Cassilda ghosted forward with a leatherbound scroll, which she placed on the pew by Jal's hand. She vanished back into shadow. 

"Kuranes the Sixth laid down the death penalty for skin changers in the Dreaming Isles. It was in a proclamation, and the exact words are, 'Let them be like Ancestral Foes.' But Kuranes the Sixth could not make it so; he didn't have the power. Morpheus appeared in the flesh to affirm Kuranes the First's oaths. Some have said because Morpheus didn't strike the Sixth when he said it, he tacitly affirmed the proclamation, but the argument, 'He didn't get hit by lightning when he said it so it must be true' lacks a certain legal weight. Men who wear the skins of bears are hunted in the Dreaming Isles by Royal Proclamation, which is a very different thing than the Founding Oaths. 

"I can't change the Founding Oaths. I would need the god himself to appear and affirm my words. He hasn't done that yet. However Royal Proclamation is not so bound. It has the weight of legal inertia and centuries of precedent. It is in the common law. But it is, at heart, the words of one king, and I am a king myself."

Now he had them, and Kuranes saw their eyes pinned to him. He let his words sink in. "Which is another shame. For if anyone could cross the plains of Huror, they would need the speed of a bear. It is said white bears swim in the waters of the Fhysay, even in the winter. Ghostbears, they call them. Such bears are known in Gehenna. They could come to the very edge of the city."

"Such a shame," he said, waiting. 

Jal and Kuranes locked eyes and between them was a battle. Jal's three comrades were looking to him in silence, as was Cassilda, while he and the King bent their wills against each other. Finally the man in the shaggy bearskin looked away, pointedly lifting the leather scroll, and reading it from roll to roll while the room watched.

"Would you like a copy of the proclamation?" asked Kuranes, when he was done.

"Yes."

Cassilda had one in hand. She gave it to their guest, and he read it carefully, taking his time. 

"So one king can undo the word of another?" Jal said. His face was closed and guarded.

"That is not untrue, but is incomplete. I spoke of legal inertia and precedent. Do not underestimate them. Removing the prohibition would be the work of a lifetime. Men have been taught to hate skin-changers from birth. Some of these men are the Parliament. To undo proclamation I require a writ, but with that writ is only an Order of Movement. That Order leads to committee-"

"A King can do what he wants!"

"A King cannot!" Kuranes yelled. "Have you heard of the Seventh and the Warlord Dread? Do you know of the Burning Year? The Pillars of Skulls? Kings did what they wanted until the Seventh did so, and we learned what madness a King may want. Understand what we're talking about. You yourself thought skin-changers were Ancestral Foes. In the minds of the common man, and the common minds of Parliament, this is like inviting dragons to dinner. They will oppose me on every front. Some lord wants a tax increase. I would fight it. He says he needs it to protect the people from being eaten by bears that I let in. The people laugh, but look nervously to the palace.

"This will be the end of my legacy," continued Kuranes. "It would take all of my power to have done. Wars are popular. I won't be remembered for ending one. Monsters are scary. I will be remembered for helping them, and historians will recall how much better things were in the old days, before I loosed the floodgates of horror."

"Not for us," said Tuk quietly.

"It's funny how quickly people forget that," Kuranes replied. "Things were so much better in the old days, unless they weren't."

"How could we trust you?" asked Vol.

"Do you have any children?" the king deflected his question.

They shook their heads, except for Jal who said, "Yes."

"Got a favorite?" asked the king.

Their silence matched the Fhysay.

Jal shrugged. "Never thought about it."

"I have six months to pick one," Kuranes added. "I'd rather not do that."

"Your Majesty, that doesn't work," said Myr, opening his mouth for the first time. "You say you have six months. Let's say some group makes the journey. Let's say it takes them five months to get there. They would require a ship to return, because no human child could endure five months in the Huror highlands. That's seven months, at least, and you would have had to make that decision already."

"Because when the messenger arrives, I will have received a pigeon, and that pigeon will tell me my son is gone from Gehenna, and I will tell the messenger to swing a rope."

"The boy cannot survive the Huror highlands," said Myr again.

"I will bring the wrath of Celephias down on them if you require it. However, I have another idea. I'll send the White Ship to pick you up and return you to the main docks. I will greet the men who saved my son with the entire kingdom at my back. I will present you in honors in the name of God. Let everyone see it."

"So it is not enough to find your boy and escape. We must hide until the ice lifts."

"Yes. Or steal a boat and put to sea."

"How would you find the boat?" demanded Myr.

"It's the darnedest thing," said Kurances philosophically. "There may be other pigeons on the island. But there aren't."

"Because the hawk got them." 

"Darndest thing," replied the king, smiling. He wanted to say more. His face was drawn, and his eyes hollow. But there was nothing he could say.

"Good bye, your Majesty," said Jal and rose for the King's leaving. The other three did as well. His majesty departed without another word, and his back vanished into the darkness of the catacombs. The men in bearskins watched him go, and when he was gone they were alone with Cassilda. 

"You?" Jal asked.

Cassilda leaned forward, and her head emerged from darkness. "There's a ship known to me sailing for Timmermere on the morning tide. It's a nice hamlet just south of the Huror plains. When I leave here, I will be going there. I can't stop you if you want to follow me. Furthermore I control the cargo. She has time to take on additional cargo if necessary. What do you need?"

Her voice was as soft as her appearance, oddly muted and hushed. Even as she spoke her words were blotted out. 

"Is that wise?" Jal asked.

"I don't work for him," she said. "I'm bound by no contract, nor do I report my comings or goings. It is useful for people like me to know people like him. Or you."

The man thought hard, and the others waited for him. When he had made up his mind, he said, "We require a sled. A big one."

The woman shrugged, and they filed from the chapel.

 

The Crystal Moment sailed with the tide. As the crewmen puffed on their frozen fingers, the white-hulled merchant lifted from the dock and raced north. The skies were iron grey for two days, and nights terribly black. Yet she pulled into a narrow bay, scarcely more than a broad defile that plunged into the sea, as expected, and the crew stomped their feet and brushed snow from the rigging. The first flakes had just started to fall. In the whole trip none of the sailors asked any questions. A fully laden dogsled sat on the beach with a peculiar harness, far too big for dogs. No sooner were passengers and cargo off than the ship sailed, not even refilling her water casks. 

The hills smelled sharp of evergreens, and the ground was thick with dry needles. A few alders stood above the crowd. Their tops were frosted, but nothing was sticking to the ground. North of them the defile climbed several miles upwards, past a sharp white line. Above it was first light snow, but it built as it climbed. In pockets with no southern exposure, the snow was already thousands of feet further down. The wind off the bay was wet and cold.

"I'm doing it," Jal announced. They had pointedly not discussed it on the ship. 

"I don't trust him," said Vol.

"None of us trust him," Tuk replied. "But I'm going too." 

They were facing each other on the hillside while the ship departed, and Tuk shifted to stand near Jal. Jal was the oldest of them all, and he had white wingtips at the temples. Tuk was the youngest, and the only one to wear a beard. 

"Why?" asked Myr.

"Because it isn't about him. He's not the one doing the bleeding. That Prince Edgar is going to get hanged one way, and I've never met a six year old that warranted a hanging. If he doesn't Prince Mittage is going to catch it for him. I've met a few twelve year olds that I wanted to give a good hanging too, but I bloody well didn't. The King's a bastard, and he might not be trustworthy. He isn't trustworthy. The hell with him. I'm not letting either princeling take thirteen loops on a short drop," snapped Tuk.

"Peace, peace. I'm not arguing with you." Myr put his hands up open-palmed, and Tuk relaxed his shoulders. The younger man pulled an old cone down, seeds long gone, and started pulling it apart in agitation. His hands had to do something. 

"One of us can't go," said Jal, thinking. "Among other things, no mistling knew that business of the oaths, nor the difference of the proclamations. Kuranes meant for us to know. Did you see the subtle way he gave us copies of both? That was no coincidence. Someone must return to Dwim. While this is no doubt important to mistlings as a whole, we mustn't forget our assignment was to gather intelligence. This is too important to pass up. If three of us fail, the last must make it home."

Myr agreed with him. "Dwim needs to know they can find us too. We don't know how, and we were all careful. Kuranes- No. He was too careful with his wording. It would have been Cassilda, whomever, or whatever, she may be. She found us, quickly. Dwim needs to know that."

"Are you going then?" Vol asked. "Rather, where are you going? North to Gehenna or home?"

Myr looked back and forth between the other three, and then stared across the ocean. "I'd rather go north. I left home but recently, and I'm in no hurry to return. But if you want to go north, I'll head back."

"I don't care," Vol replied.

"Then you will return home to Dwim," Jal judged. "Take these and keep them safe." He took the scrolls from hidden pockets in his cloak and passed them over. 

Vol looked unhappy with the decision but did not argue. They stood together for a heartbeat, each looking to the other to speak first. Then Jal shook Vol's hand, and the other two followed suit. They exchanged short goodbyes and another awkward silence. When they split Vol went east alone.


	5. Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Voice experiment. Working on establishing voice clearly different from an arbitrary and supposedly impartial narrator. This did not come out correctly. It had all of the Martin problems, being both asinine and preachy, without the supplanted plot threads necessary to bring the voice to a plot on its own merits. 
> 
> Zelazny made this look like cake. It's like he was a great writer or something.

"I'm an angry, hate filled person and this has got to stop. I can't keep doing this. I have got to make a change! But-"

I struggled.

"I don't know," I admitted. "I don't know what to do. I looked around and I can't stand people, so I avoid them, and then I'm terribly lonely. I'm tense all of the time. I think I'm better than everyone, but I hate myself. My parents won't talk to me, and I haven't been with a girl in forever, but I'm trapped. I see nothing but what they do wrong. They all do. They don't think. They just act like herd seals, fat, bloated and moist on the beaches. They-"

"Argus-" interrupted Fr. Wailen. "You're starting to cascade. Do you remember our conversation about cascading?"

I stared at him with my hands clenched in claws.

"Yes."

"What is cascading?"

"It's when I start talking about something that makes me mad, and it makes me mad, and then I go back to other things that make me mad, and cycle through. It makes a cascade," I said. My chest hurt.

"Yes, son. Yes. Breath. I won't stop you from speaking, but I will stop you from cascading. When you're ready, explain yourself."

Fr Wailen was blessed with a deep, soothing voice. He spoke slowly. He had been a big man in his youth, muscular and athletic, but turned overweight as he aged. Yet that loss of fitness forced him to choose his battles, expend the effort of his words with calculated precision. He spoke deliberately. There was something restraining about him, like the foot of deep mountains.

"That's everything," I admitted, after too short an introspection to allow overthinking. "I need help. I keep trying to change, and I don't know how. I need to be a nicer person, but- but I'm not and I don't understand why I can't just choose to be a nicer person."

The priest waited. I didn't get the impression he was waiting for more, but if there was, he would listen. There wasn't. Longer was just more time to analyse and criticise, and I had too much of that.

"Argus, mastery is making the difficult look effortless. It is not making the difficult effortless. Many people get confused. You're trapped in a cycle of anger, and you're looking out, probably at those who act as you wish, and you see them make it look effortless. You think it is. And it gets easier, but that takes work. God put us here to work." The old cliche sounded deep coming from the caves under mountains. "So you must work."

"I'm prepared to do that," I said, trying to sound confident. "What do I do?"

"Compliment one person every day."

I waited. He waited. "That's it?" I demanded.

"That's how you start," he emphasized.

"I'm not going to fake compliment people and be a empty-headed flatterer!" I yelled at the old priest.

"No. Don't do that," he agreed.

"Then what do you mean?" I yelled again. My voice echoed off the wide church walls, and had there been anyone in the nave, they would have heard. Anyone outside the doors, in the rectory or in the choir would have heard.

"You must look for something in everyone worth complimenting. You must find the good in them. Then, praise it."

I was about to argue that all people were worthless, but I bit that back.

"It will be difficult. You must work. But, as you work, you will get better at finding the good in others. Other people will appreciate the kind words, and as you get better at finding it, you will find there is more of it to be found."

I tried to keep my voice level. "Is this one of those good and bad in everyone sermons?"

"Have I given you a sermon?" asked Fr Wailen.

"You have given this sermon," I insisted.

He smiled. "True. Am I giving you a sermon now?"

I muttered inconclusively.

"I try to stay on course," he added, still smiling. "There is light and darkness in everyone. That which you look for is that which you find. You looked too much for the darkness, and you found it. Now you must look for the light."

I muttered more odd noises. Irritated, I admitted no contest. "So I have to find the good in people and compliment that."

"Yes. Don't make it hard on yourself. Recognize a new shirt or a clever turn of phrase."

"Glerg," I muttered, the meaning of which was indistinct to us both.

"Indeed," he concurred.

Echoes in Basilica of Diamond Mist danced in the ears. My grumbling sang a hymn. I felt like I was cheapening it.

"Not so sure about this, Father," I admitted.

I was convinced the Basilica of Diamond Mist was the most glorious building on Pallas. It was the perfect blend of functional architecture and aesthetic joy. From the pulpit, Fr Wailen's voice reached every pew and spoke firmly to every petitioner, yet from the pews our echoes were soft, melodic whispers. The Nave was a great pentagon, the pulpit at the apex and the choir above the wall furthest from. Behind the spire where Wailen enjoined us to trust in God and put our hands to His work were the Reliefs of Obsidian, intricate reliefs in black glass. Deepest was the Lord of Dark Waters, second from the left, not more than a hand's width to the Black Abyss. All could cut flesh like razors, cut the light like prisms, and throw echoes like thunder. 

I wasn't paying attention to the architecture. I stared at my hands and thumbed angrily though the pages of the hymnal without seeing the words. I could read. Most of the idiots who came here couldn't read. They thought pages were leaves of grey plants they couldn't eat. We didn't need hymnals; we needed selective breeding. I twisted the leather cover without creasing it.

Fr Wailen waited with patience befitting the granite of the Diamond Mist.

"Not sure at all," I said after a long time.

"What are you not sure of?" he prompted.

"Being a flatterer. Sounds like flattery."

"It is not. There's an important decision. A flatterer praises without working to find anything worth praise. I have rarely given anyone advice that doesn't entail work." 

He sat on the pew one up from me. We were about the middle of the main seating area, the Menschen, on close carved pews of dark sandalwood. He was turned in his pew to face me, a difficult task for a man with a big belly. I was hunched over, looking down.

"Complimenting people wasn't really what I came here to talk about," I said, kneading the hymnal.

"If you were looking for an insight that makes everything clear and effortless, you will be disappointed. There are many insights in the books of Domman, and the only one I find that makes the world clear is 'God put us here to work.' I'm fond of that one."

"I noticed," I observed.

He ignored me. 

"I can only tell you where to find fish. You must row out and cast your net yourself," I said.

I grumbled under my breath.

"You can also try smiling more," he added. By the sound he had looked away, up towards the intricate stonework on the ceiling. "We're souls enjoined to a body. We must attend the body for happiness. People who smile more are happier."

"People smile because they're happy."

"True, but it goes both ways. Even the river Sarnac flows uphill twice a day."

"Well, yeah, but it's not really a river so much as a narrow tidal basin-" I descended into more grumbling and twisted the hymnal in my hands.

The damned thing was Wailen would let me talk myself out. He wasn't going to go away. He didn't have anyplace to go. He lived in the rectory, and there were no services until midnight vespers. It was the Fallows of Springtime, and regular service wouldn't start up until the ice in the harbor broke and the first ship sailed. The fishing fleets came and went through the Sarnac. Wailen had all the time in the world.

"It's high tide right now, so the winter fishermen are putting to sea as we speak. I've already blessed them, and said an Annes Domin for their work. Take all the time you need," said Fr Wailen as if he could read my mind.

Hell, he was going to out-wait my concerns. I didn't have time for this horseshit. I had work to do. Tide and money wait for no one.

"Not sure about this, Father," I repeated and stood up.

He stood up too. "I think you can do it. You're a smart man, to look for more when what you have is unsatisfying. Many people think salt bread will cure their thirst if they only eat enough, and you've avoided that trap. I'll pray for you."

People probably did. Bunch of assholes. 

"Thank you, Father," I muttered and hustled out. 

My words and footsteps praised the Lord as I went.


	6. Deadly V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deadly V

Deadly V stormed down the tunnel and around the corner, slamming the iron-bound door of the pit such that the oak beams shivered in their settings and the bolts clanged against the basalt frame. In the stone room off the pit, lit by candles she'd brought from camp, lay two duffel bags of her training equipment and several jars of water. She ignored them. Twice she circled the bench, arguing furious and silently. She stabbed a knife hand at nothing, jumped and pantomimed yelling, and bit the noise back, circling the bench again.

Deadly V, Samantha of Carth, or Sam stood five feet four inches tall with a reach of sixty six inches. Her hair lay tight to her head in close braids. As she tore leather straps off her hands and smashed them onto the bench, she wore a turik, a short divided skirt that barely covered mid-thigh in long strips of fabric. They were cut so each motion and kick revealed thigh up to an inner garment, the same color as the outside, that served as underwear. Her top was a functional sheath that kept her arms free and provided no grip.

Before she'd unwrapped her first hand Ell of Vulcan walked into the room after her and bolted the door behind him. He walked past her to lean against the wall, facing her over the bench where she was still stripping and ripping her fist coverings apart. Ell was more than twice her age, wore donut of hair with a big bite missing over his forehead, and carried an old man's paunch. He had amazingly quick hands.

"Let's talk about that," he said and didn't look surprised when she started yelling before he could say another word.

"That was horse shit!" she yelled, stabbing at him with a knife hand across the bench. "She napping in the sand!"

"She was," agreed Ell.

"She wasn't moving!"

"Not that I saw."

"She didn't lay a hand on me!"

"Not one good hit."

"And don't you give me that woman-calm-down shit either!" yelled Sam.

"The words 'woman, calm down,' never left my lips."

"You're 'woman, calm downing' shit at me right now!"

Ell shook his head. "No, I'm calm because I wasn't in the ring. I wasn't getting swung on, and I fight with the judges while you fight the other competitor. I can't win a fight with the judges when I'm angry. But I'm here only to talk about the fight, and I haven't said a thing about you calming down. I understand completely. You won that fight, and the judge robbed you. How could I tell you you shouldn't be mad?"

He gave her a faint, apologetic shrug. "If it makes you feel better, I've done this with a ton of guys too. When I was in the army, half my job was making sure my sergeant didn't kill the new recruits. It's just something you do. People get mad. You've got to let other people, the people who're trying to help you, talk you down."

Sam didn't move a muscle, and Ell started rummaging for other stories when she spat, "That ruling was shit."

"Yep," agreed Ell. "You still have to talk to the crowd."

"The crowd is shit. They applauded a house made of frozen shit bricks."

"You still have to talk to them."

Sam chewed her bottom lip. "What do you want me to say to those assholes?"

"Say you disagree with the ruling, never say you disagree with the judge. That ruling was wrong. You respect the judge."

"The judge is an asshole."

"Yes," agreed Ell. "But he's a person. You disagree with the ruling, not the person. The ruling was wrong, the person wasn't. People know that judge. The other judges know that judge. You want those other judges on your side. Don't attack the person. Attack the ruling."

"But the cold hell if I get that judge again?" demanded Sam.

Ell replied quickly, "Oh, I'm going to talk to the next coordinator about that. Sam, I'm going to talk about that. You got counted out while you were on your feet, the other girl was napping. We're going to talk about that, about whether that judge gets any of your fights again. Don't worry. We're going to talk about that."

He looked at her and returned to his previous tact. "But you have to go out there and talk to people, let them see you, make sure they know you're a person, not Celephias. You told the judge to suck milk from a bull. Everyone knows you were mad in the ring, so that doesn't tip points against you. But people want you to snuff your anger out like a candle, and they'll turn against you if you make them admit that's not possible. You've got to try. Now, while they haven't made up their minds, you have to go be a person, so they remember Deadly V got counted out while Deep Water was sleeping, and not that Gehenna beat Celephias. You have great respect for the judge, but disagree vehemently with the ruling."

"'Judge is an asshole," muttered Sam, barely under her breath.

Ell just shrugged. "Do you think I'm going to argue with that? He counted you out while she was sleeping."

Sam muttered for a bit, a lot about the biological functions of the gods, until she demanded, "Take these wraps off."

Ell stood up off the wall and walked over as Sam hopped onto the bench and sat down grumbling. He had her right hand free and was just about to start on the other when he said, "You need to keep your left hand up. A faster fighter could take points when your hand dipped."

Sam sighed and stared through the wall. "That's true. You're right."

Her coach nodded. "Hands up. Good head motion, through. Real good head motion."

"Yep," said Sam in unconsciously identical tones to the way Ell had said it earlier. She looked down. "You're a cold man."

Ell looked up. "That's just me. You fight with passion. Be you."

She looked away, and he went back to the intricate process of unwrapping her fists. She asked, "Why'd you stop fighting?"

"Because ice breaks if you punch it in the jaw hard enough," and Sam started laughing.


	7. Beginning of the Second

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'll see these people later

Tiny Eleanor rushed through the kitchen to the plain side-room where Orolk and Mirren were carefully working out a budget. Eight piles of iron-ringed coins lay on scraps of leather across the white root-elm table. Most of the coins were silver-cored, encircled by a dark steel rim, and many others were red copper. These had no steel ring, merely ridges. One pile was a single gold coin with a broad steel band, and it sat on mouse-fur leather. The two adults were talking in serious, artificially low voices about three silvers in Mirren's hands and the two pieces of scrap before her. 

"Mom! Dad! Ergog the Destroyer just beat me up!" gasped Eleanor, and threw herself between them.

Her parents paused. 

"Ergog...the Destroyer beat you up?" asked Mirren.

"Yes!"

"The Destroyer? My assistant?" asked Orolk. "About-" He attempted to describe a height with a hand over his head and failed. "The one who has to duck to get through the door?"

"Yes!" gasped Eleanor even louder. She grinned. "He beat me up!"

"You look marvelously healthy for that," said Mirren.

"Thanks!" She beamed at him. 

"Eleanor, what are you talking about?" demanded Orolk.

"I was minding my own business and not bothering him, and he beat me up," said Eleanor.

Her father made a 'keep going' gesture.

"I was walking through the smithy-"

"You're not allowed in the smithy," said her mother.

"But I wasn't bothering anyone! And I wasn't bothering Ergog. I was just walking along, and he snatched me up and started yelling! He yelled! He said, 'I'm going to smite you, Eleanor! Doom! Stop hitting me in the toe with my hammer! Prepare to die! Doom!"

"He said, 'Stop hitting me in the toe with my hammer?'" asked Mirren.

Eleanor paused. "He said, 'Prepare to die.'"

"But this was after you were hitting him in the toe with his hammer?" asked Orolk.

Eleanor looked side to side between her parents. "No."

"Eleanor, did you hit him in the toe with his hammer?" asked Mirren.

The girl looked side to side again, and then down. "No."

"Let's put that aside for a moment," said Orolk. "When did he start beating you up?"

"Um..." said Eleanor, and thought really hard. Her little face scrunched up. "Later. But he did! He grabbed me up, and started going thwacka, thwacka, thwacka, with his thumbs on my head!"

"Was he drumming?" asked Mirren.

"No. I am not a drum."

"Was that the beating?" asked Orolk.

"No. I fought free! But he grabbed me around the belly, and he held his fist over my head. He was shaking it, and he said he was going to strike me with the Fist of Doom! So I tried to block! And he shook his fist! And I screamed! And then he poked me in the belly, and I grabbed his poking hand, and then he smote me with the Fist of Doom! And you know what he said!?"

Mirren and Orolk leaned forward, away from the small piles of money and the many scraps of leather. 

"No," admitted Mirren. "What did he say?"

"Bonk! With the Fist of Doom!"

"When was this?" asked Orolk.

"Just now!"

"Well, we're going to go speak with Ergog. But since you've been smote by the Fist of Doom, you should probably rest and recover in bed," mused Mirren, thinking of how long her daughter would need to recuperate from such an injury.

"But it's early!"

"It was the Fist of Doom," said Orolk impressively. 

"On my head!" yelled Eleanor. "Ergog the Destroyer should have to go to bed."

"He doesn't sound injured," said Mirren.

"His toe is!" snapped Eleanor and slapped her hands over her mouth.

"I see," said Orolk. "Eleanor, you are not allowed in the smithy when anyone is working, and you are never allowed to lie. Go out back, and pull one full basket of weeds."

"A basket!? But I got smote with the Fist of Doom!"

"Eleanor, weeds."

"Dad!" whined Eleanor at a yell and moped out back.

Neither of her parents spoke until she was gone in a high-volume flounce, and then they regarded each other blandly. 

"Are you going to talk to Ergog?" asked Mirren.

"I will," admitted Orolk. "But I can tell you what he'll say now. Eleanor got into the smithy and picked up one of the hammers he wasn't using and either dropped it on his foot or swung by accident. He either cursed and noticed her so tried to switch to something else, or tried to grab the hammer and caught her by accident. Either way, then he had to play it off, so he wound up in battle with Eleanor. And lo, he smote her with the Fist of Doom."

Mirren was nodding faintly along. "The Fist of Doom. Where do you men come up with such things?"

Orolk answered absently. "Lord Baroon the Warmarshal did. It was at Tyr, after Ergog killed a dragon with his hands."

"Oh, that never happened." Mirren snorted and looked away. Suddenly, something bothered her. Some voice spoke in the back of her mind. She shivered. Looking back, she saw Orolk staring at her, and his face was cold and angry.

"Remember this," he said. "The next time you complain to your sister or your mother that I don't talk about Tyr, remember this. The one time I make the mistake of telling you anything about it, you don't listen. You laughed. You think it's a joke. Don't ever ask about Tyr again." 

"Orolk, I didn't mean-" She recoiled. 

"Oh, you did exactly what you meant," he snapped. All the warmth was gone. Orolk's face, lined with wrinkles and marked by many small burns, was a cold, unfriendly mask. "I will speak to the Destroyer." He got up and walked away.

Mirren had raised five children, the oldest married and gone, the youngest currently picking weeds in the yard. She was a lean, hard woman, darkly tanned by the sun of the high mountains. She had survived war, famine, and plague, and as her husband walked stiff-backed out of the room, she waited until he was gone to burst into tears.

 

 

The Destroyer was sitting on an anvil with a bare foot across his other thigh, tying two of his toes together. The lowlanders were always bigger than the highlanders, but Ergog was one of the biggest men Orolk had ever seen. Seated, he was almost eye level with Orolk standing, and Ergog was as big in the arms and leg as most highlanders were around. Looking at him, Orolk guessed that one of Ergog's hands would wrap Eleanor's belly. He would have grabbed her like a kitten.

"Are you injured?" asked Orolk.

"Nope. Banged my toe. I'll tie it off and try not to run for a few weeks."

"Broken?"

"Hard to say with toes, but doesn't matter. If they're hurt you tie them off, and if they're broken, you tie them off."

Orolk nodded. "I just spoke with Eleanor. She says you beat her up."

The younger smith paused. He looked up through heavy eyebrows. "Is she hurt?"

"Not in any way that slows her down," said Orolk. "She said you bonked her with the Fist of Doom."

Ergog vacillated. "My memory of those events is hazy. Who can say?" he asked rhetorically. 

"Eleanor," Orolk answered. "She said a lot. In detail. At speed."

"Your daughter is a very-" pause "-active child."

"What happened?"

"Oh, she was just playing around, and I roughed her up a bit. I tried to be careful. You said she's fine?"

"Ergog, you don't need to protect her. I want to know what happened."

"She was playing around, and we wrestled. It was an exercise in tactics. I was pretty sure I'd win."

Orolk looked at the young smith and mentally compared him to the five year old. She was probably taller than his knee. The old smith sighed. Damn lowlanders. They didn't understand the supremacy of truth, the fact that knowing what happened or telling it honestly was more important than making sure a girl didn't get in trouble. Ergog was wrong, and sooner or later it would be to Orolk to straighten him out.

However Orolk was not going to criticize Ergog's integrity while he was binding a toe Eleanor had broken. 

Orolk turned to the side and thought of Mirren. That had been the truth. Why had he unleashed the harsh truth on her and was now sparing the rod of truth from Ergog? It was nonsense. But the truth cared nothing for size or sex. It broke the powerful and the weak as easily as wind breaks icicles. Maybe the lowlander was right and everyone should be spared, and the truth a matter of convenience to help when it could and be ignored when it couldn't.

"I'm all right, old man," intruded Ergog on his master's thought. "It's just a toe."

Orolk opened his mouth to say he wasn't worried about the warrior, paused, closed it, and shrugged. "What work do you have to do today?"

Ergog paused, looking down. There were a pile of unjoined hinges on the side table. Hinges required a lot of walking between the stations. "Probably get started on those," he said.

"Put those off for now. Do we have the nails for them?"

"Some."

"Make more. Make a basket of nails. They sell well." And get me a basket of weeds.

"As you say," said the huge lowlander, and he eased from the anvil to the hearthside seat, where the molds and vessels stood.


	8. Joe and Joseph

Joseph Chamlaine saw himself in the mirror as if he’d been an art major. He was thinner for one. He was lean like cure leather, not rich health. The art major was also scragglier. He was clean, but went months between haircuts, days between shaves. He had a strong five-o’clock shadow. They were both of them wearing bathing suits, but that was to be expected of the Total Fitness pool locker room. There was no one else here at 5 AM.

“You up late or early?” Joe asked.

“Late,” Joseph replied. “I left a thing early, but stayed up to watch clouds. Professional development.”

“Nice,” Joe replied and honestly meant it.

“You’re here early,” Joseph commented.

“Waiting for my letter to Hogwarts or ring of power,” Joe replied. “You wait. When the ring-wraiths chase us, I’ll be carrying you.”

“Hey, can we talk about that?” asked Joseph.

 

Joseph Chamlaine, Joe in the lab, had never been a morning person. He did it because he hated it. He did it because the next person to arrive was the retired lady in green at 5:45 at the earliest. The weight room would be empty till 7:00.

He’d come to the gym since his second year, undeclared major, at North Shore University. Counselor had been straight forward. 

“Pick a major. Pick two. You can’t register until you do.” It had rhymed. That was obviously unintentional. Maxwell Ross, huge gentlemen with an imperturbable temper and a voice for announcing movies, leaned back in his chair and waited. Mr Chamlaine could go, declare his major, or seek guidance. Ross was prepared for all three. He was paid either way.

“Can I think about it?” 

“Absolutely. Remember junior registration begins Tuesday.”

“That was it, really. School wouldn’t stop for him. Joe left and went swimming.

In the locker room, empty again, he’d stopped to consider himself. 

“Should I do it?” he asked.

“You’ll never make any money at it.”

“Then ask yourself, is it worth the debt?”

“Nah,” said Joe and left the school ten grand less negative, a year earlier, and with a Chemical Engineering degree.

“Eh,” thought Joseph and carried away a Master of Arts, Focus: Studio Portrait Drawing, and a second major: Digital Sculpture. 

 

“What’s to talk about?” Joe asked.

“World’s gone to shit,” Joseph explained.

“What? How?”

“Vampires.”

Joe said nothing. Joe didn’t disbelieve at all. It was his guilty fear, absurd phobia, and secret. Vampires in Joe’s world were terrifying, real beasts that he lived in denial about to function. 

He wouldn’t watch vampire movies and if forced, would take solace in the fact that they weren’t real vampires.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean. The plague hit. The battle is on. ‘Salem's Lot is fallen, not yet burned, only it’s the whole world.”

“How do you function?” Joe asked, utterly confused.

Joseph laughed. It was ironic, like it had been written on an ironic t-shirt. It wasn’t actually ironic.

“People function. The facade holds. Whatever magic makes it, it is still strong old magic. If I’m not careful, I believe it myself. I slip into the old patterns until art brings me out of it. Strange confession, self mine?”

“Sure.”

“They say art holds a mirror to the real world. They’re right. Even under the glamor, if I draw, I draw the real world.”

“Wow,” Joe admitted.

“Don’t believe me or think me mad, you do see the absurdity off this,” Joseph replied and indicated the mirror between them.

“I didn’t say I didn’t,” Joe replied. “What do you want?”

“I want you to bring me through. You remember the dreams, wishing it was me. I lived it. It sucks. I’m you so you can trust me, and don’t do it.”

“You really want out?” Joe asked. “You want ChemEng world?”

“Dude,” Joseph addressed himself, then sighed. He shook his head. “Remember watching the old movies, thinking burning leaches off with a lighter is cool, but it would probably suck? Well, it sucks. It sucks bad. Pull me through, Joe.”

“Then come through,” replied Joe, and his hand passed through the glass like water. Joseph took his grip and climbed forward, over the counter and kicking aside courtesy tissue.

The it was over and the shock of what just happened hit him. He was looking at himself in the real world, the grimy hyper-reality of the fragrant locker room. And it had happened. It was real.

“So, ah, welcome to my world,” said Joe.

“Thanks. Wanna swim?” Joseph replied.

They did. They really did love it. Joe went first, Joseph pounced on his neck, and drained him in ten seconds.


	9. The Reichon Bas Relief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> World building

The professor showed the students the Reichon bas relief, trying to remain professional.

"The towering figure in front is Reichon Garoul, the Hellcase. In the relief he's five meters tall and central, depicted in what goblins call 'triumphant,' which is what it sounds like. You can see him lording over the entire work. It is exaggerated, of course, however in real life he is about three meters tall. That's somewhat above average for a goblin, but not unusual. Their average height is about two point eight meters.

"This is a fairly typical rendition of theirs, various goblins in positions of glory with humans at their feet. Initially the Reichon reliefs were supposed to have elves as well, and when we obtained them, the elves were scheduled to be killed for the initial display. None were rendered in clay."

The professor glanced at his students and tried to spice it up. 

"This is current, and you can see some people you might know. Doctor Seth is in the corner. Notice how he looks like a rat? Goblins generally have a low opinion of doctors. Notice also his small head compared to the Reichon. Goblins generally have larger heads proportional to their bodies than humans, so when they depict us, they accentuate the difference.

"Beside the doctor are the twins Van and Mandrake. Notice how they lie broken and beaten. Human warriors are often shown like this, even as their limbs are shown withered. Notice how small they are."

The professor glanced at his students again. Two boys were fighting in the back of the crowd. The students were a senior class in their teens, dressed in dun linens. Both boys and girls wore cuirass and leggings, but the girls tended to cut theirs into skirts, and the men ignored it. Some of the girls in front were fidgeting with their clothing. He was losing them. 

Faintly, the professor smiled, low and cocky.

"Moving on we see the Baroness Alyssa. Notice the unnatural enlargement of her breasts."

It worked like a charm. Heads snapped up, and one of the fighters gasped something about melons.

"This is not unusual. Goblin women only have visible breasts while they're lactating. The rest of the time their breasts are invisible, like most mammals-"

"And Sophy!"

Shouting, some laughing, and a girl in the front turned bright red. The professor tried to ignore it. 

He pointed to a comparative female goblin. "This is the Arbitress Jyrkit, and she's dressed normally for one of them. Thick leggings, long pants, and several belts. They were belts like we wear backpacks. But see how her upper torso is bare? There's faint development of the pectorals, but little-"

"Aw, just like Wren," said Sophy, the girl who had flushed earlier. 

More shouts exploded. The professor thought he might have overshot his mark and quickly decided not to say anything about the Arbitress's nipples.

"Keep it down, keep it down. Returning to the Arbitress, compare her to the human Baronness. On the human you'll noticed the large breasts and small head. This is pretty typical to how they see us, and interesting given the otherwise high degree of realism."

"It's not realistic," interjected someone from the front. Hector, possibly. The professor hadn't learned all their names. "Look at her legs."

"Ah! Good point. These reliefs were never designed to be viewed up close like we are. They were meant to be emplaced and viewed from fifty to a hundred meters away. What's more, the emplacements have very little depth. Goblin reliefs tend to have a sharply defined foreground, and use forced perspective and lighting for the rest. In a moment we'll back off to the far end of the hall, and you'll see the intended perspective. Other than the biological inaccuracies mentioned, she looks fairly natural."

He waited. A moment of glorious silence passed with no jokes.

"This is a very important point about how goblindom sees humankind. They think human women are constantly breeding, giving rise to their rumors of human hordes. Further, given our comparatively small heads, many of them think we're stupid. This is aided by the fact that humans get quite a bit stronger than goblins, so they think we're strong, dumb, and do nothing but procreate."

"Well, wouldn't there be more goblins if they had doctors?" asked the kid in front.

"Quite possibly," agreed the professor and pushed them back to get the intended perspective. The Reichon relief, nearly thirty meters across and fifteen meters at its highest, remained a black mountain clay and silver. One piece was conspicuous in its absence on the left, but otherwise it was the largest, most complete work of goblin artistry in human hands.

 

Baroness Alyssa smiled and waved out her carriage window. A few people waved back. Most merely observed her, and said or did nothing. 

One boy recognized her and shouted, "I saw your melons at the museum!" at the top of his lungs.

She jerked back from the window and yanked the curtain closed.

"Why do we even have that on display!?" she demanded and waved her arms.

Her husband, Satyr, who had been staring into space thinking about chimneys, blinked at her.

"It's unnecessary and deplorable!" added Alyssa.

He 'ahhed.' "Right, that one. It is the largest work of goblin art in human hands, and it's especially interesting being so fresh. Most of the people in it are still alive-"

"My melons don't need to be in the museum!"

Satyr processed that. "Well..." he replied and trailed off.


End file.
